


An amiable and fortunate daughter

by Akshi



Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akshi/pseuds/Akshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Here, however, is one part in excess of the hundred, intended for giving thee a daughter's son. This part shall develop into an amiable and fortunate daughter, as thou hast desired."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An amiable and fortunate daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali/gifts).



She wasn't supposed to be in the gardens. She was supposed to be upstairs with the rest of the girls, getting her hair oiled and plaited and strung with jasmine, wearing her best sari and the gold chain and bracelets that Maa only took out for her on special occasions. But Dushala was angry and out of sorts and didn't want to see the parade. She didn't want to meet her new cousins. She just wanted to be left alone.

She was sitting in her special tree, curled up in an angry ball, when her brother found her. "Dushu, come down," he called, holding his arms out imperatively. 

"Won't," she said.

Silence. Then a rustling, followed by Dada's head popping up next to her. "What's wrong?" he said. "This isn't like you, Dushu."

Dushala had always been a little in awe of Dada. He was the oldest, after all, and very strict when one of her other brothers misbehaved. But he was also her favourite brother, always speaking to her gently and never teasing her or pinching her arm to make cry.

"Everyone's being stupid," she said. "No one wants to play. They just keep looking in the mirrors and changing their clothes and talking about the visit."

"Well, yes, that's natural," Dada said. "Our cousins and their mother are coming back after so many years. Aren't you excited to meet your cousins?"

"They're all boys. Boys are boring."

Dada's lip twitched. "Yes, I know you'd prefer they weren't boys. But I also know you're a well-behaved girl and you're going to greet them as befits a Kaurava princess."

He looked at her sternly. "Aren't you?"

Cowed, Dushala nodded and climbed down. 

>>>

Dushala could hardly see past the shoulders of the ladies in waiting. She caught glimpses of father raising a hand to bless a beautiful woman bowing in front of him; her mother bending to perform the aarti and smear sacred ash on her cousins' foreheads. She couldn't see their faces clearly, but two were tall enough (and one of these enormously fat to boot) to be of an age with Dada. Another was slender, probably not much older than she was. The other two were babies, clutching their mother's sari and hiding behind her.

The banquet was interminable. Dushala hid her yawns behind her hand and tried to remember to keep her back straight. Through the arched windows, she could see the full moon. 

Finally - finally! - her mother retired and she could shuffle out behind her and the other ladies of the court. Back in the queen's chambers, she wrenched off her sari and thrust her ornaments into her nurse's hands, slipped on a long tunic and ran through the corridors, out into the gardens. She raced through dark trees, gulping great lungfuls of the cool air. She had almost reached her tree when she saw a boy standing next to it, staring at the lotus pond. She stopped abruptly.

The boy turned to look at her. She thought he was one of the Pandavas, though she couldn't remember his name. 

"Good evening, cousin," he said. His eyes were very large.

Dushala was attacked by shyness. She stuttered out a reply of some sort. "Your gardens are so beautiful," her cousin said. "They remind me of the forest. I have to admit, I find the rest of the palace overwhelming." He sighed and went back to inspecting the lotuses. 

>>>

His name, Dushala later remembered, was Arjun. Arjun the third Pandava brother. 

Over the months that followed, other qualities clustered around that name in her mind. Arjun of the almond-shaped eyes and the quick hands. Arjun, whose curved smiles made the girls sigh. Arjun, whose skill with the bow made all her brothers look foolish. 

Arjun, Arjun, Arjun.

The other brothers took on distinct qualities, too. Quiet, gentle Yudhishtira, the eldest, who smiled at Dushala whenever he saw her, but spoke to her only rarely. Fat Bhima the bully, taller and stronger than Dada even, and only too keen to prove it. Nakula and Sahadeva, always together, in the stables or stealing food from the kitchens.

The Pandavas' awe at the palace faded quickly, as did their initial good manners and (Dushala had to admit) those of her brothers. She remembered Duryodhana showing off his best bow to Arjun on one early day, his eyes bright and animated as he demonstrated its accuracy. She remembered raucous games of kabbadi, boys laughing everywhere. She remembered Yudhishtira playing clap-hands with Kundaja and Chitraka, still babies and delighted that an older boy was paying attention to them.

Then, somehow, the games turned rougher, always ending in shouting and wrestling matches. Bhima often started it, shoving her brothers roughly till they retaliated. Something dark seemed to lurk behind every conversation. More and more often, she saw Dada speaking to Uncle Shakuni, frowning, a sour look on his face. 

She stopped watching when they played; it was no longer enjoyable. Her nurse kept telling her that she was now too old to spend so much time with her brothers. And, besides, she was showing an unfortunate tendency to lose her train of thought and stutter whenever she looked at one particular cousin. It was unseemly, embarrassing. Dushala retreated.

>>>

She was fourteen when her first blood came. She woke to a stickiness between her thighs and an alarming stain on the sheets. She kept her face down, flushed with embarrassment, through the ceremony and celebration that followed, didn't look anyone in the eye while she was carried in a palanquin around the outskirts of the city, trumpets blowing to herald her passage. Dimly, she knew what this meant. She could have children now; eligible princes would seek her hand in marriage. 

>>>

Dushala never disturbed Maa in the prayer room. Even the palace kitchens were risky - Maa was always too busy examining the provisions that came in each day and instructing the head cook about guests' preferences. And it was difficult to speak loudly enough to be heard above the sizzling of oil in pans and the servants rushing in and out.

The gardens were better. Early in the morning on the palace lawns, throwing birdseed to the peacocks, her ladies standing some way away, Maa's shoulders lowered infinitesimally and her forehead above the tightly wrapped bandage lost the crease between her eyebrows. 

So Dushala chose her moment wisely and sidled forward to her mother's side one morning. "Maa," she said, "may I ask you something?"

Her mother nodded.

Dushala tried to pick her words carefully. "I heard Baba met the astrologer yesterday and they spoke about me. That I would be married to the Sindhu king. Is it true?" 

"Yes," her mother said. "Next month."

"Oh." Dushala wanted to ask more questions, but she found that her lips were trembling too hard for her to shape the words. A vision of doe-like eyes, fringed by lashes too long for a boy, flashed in her mind's eye. 

Her mother had never needed sight to look into her daughter's heart. "Child," she said, "he was never for you. Put those thoughts aside."

>>>

Her wedding was a blur. Gently bred girls were instructed to keep their eyes lowered through the ceremony, not to smile, to stay awake by pinching the inside of their wrists if necessary. Dushala's memories of the day were vague, obscured by the veil of her red wedding sari and the gnawing hunger she felt through the hours.

Her wedding night was a nightmare. Jayadratha came to her with his eyes reddened, his mouth smelling of fermented soma. His hands were rough on her, ripping off her sari and undergarments, squeezing her breasts and spreading her thighs wide. When he entered her, she thought the pain would kill her. He thrust into her like a bull, grunting into her hair, crying out his release and then falling asleep on top of her.

She came to associate her husband with the nights. He was of the school of thought that women were best left to handle the household affairs and bear children. With regard to the latter, he did his duty, plunging away atop her almost every night till she grew heavy with child. 

When Suradha was born, Jayadratha was gone from the palace, fighting a battle two kingdoms away. Dushala found she preferred it that way. She was free to marvel over her son's tiny rosebud mouth, his perfect unlined hands and feet, all by herself. She held the child close as he sucked at her breast and thought her heart would burst with joy.

>>>

After Suradha's birth, Jayadratha visited her much less frequently, preferring to spend his time with dancing girls. Dushala learned to turn a blind eye when necessary and make discreet arrangements to send away particular favourites when they began to exert dangerous levels of fascination over her husband. She visisted her mother frequently, too.

She was in Hastinapura when the Pandavas visited to gamble with Dada. They entered the city in great state, the palanquins for their wives alone numbering in the hundreds. As the only daughter, Dushala gathered up her sisters-in-law to welcome the Pandavas to the palace. She touched Yudhishtira and Bhima's feet. She smiled at Arjun, her hands folded, and weathered the quick spasm of pain in her chest at his returning smile. She greeted Draupadi, dark-skinned and ravishing, her arrogance as natural and becoming to her as thorns to a rose. 

Later, she heard about the game of dice. The city was inflamed, the elders were appalled. Dushala could scarcely believe it: that Dada, always so conscious of his position and his honour, should demand Draupadi in a wager; that Yudhishtira would agree to it; and - worst! - that all the men whom she respected in the world would stand by silently as Dushasana stripped a married woman of her clothes. 

She could not and did not want to believe it. She hurried back to Sauvira, threw herself into managing the household and tending to Suradha, forbade gossip related to Hastinapura or Indraprastha.

>>>

When the war came, she had to believe it. Jayadratha was flushed with anger and anticipation. She performed the aarti for him before he rode off in his chariot. And then, when there was no point in avoiding it any longer, she asked her ladies in waiting to tell her what had led to this point. She sewed and embroidered as their words piled up, words upon words upon words, a surfeit of words with only one interpretation: that her world and everyone in it had gone mad.

Many months later, her sandals sank into ground wet with blood and littered with men's bodies, as she looked for Jayadratha's head. Above her, the carrion birds whirled in the sky, waiting to feast. 

Memories ran through her head in a ceaseless flood. She thought of Dada pushing her on a swing as a little girl; of Vivitsu bringing her his broken toys to mend; of Arjun laughing, plucking a rose and pushing it into her braid, carelessly affectionate; of Kundaja and Chitraka shrieking and running through the palace. 

She was crying when she found her husband's head. She clutched the gory thing to her breast and let the loud, wrenching sobs shake her body, stumbling back over the battlefield unseeing.

>>>

The horse entered Sindhu territory on the seventh day after the sacrifice. It had run swiftly, but the Pandavas' messengers were swifter still. Their words were honeyed, sweet over a core of bitter gall. Her son had heard their words and his hands clenched on his thighs as they spoke, his sweaty palms leaving stains on the silk. Dushala stood behind his throne and listened stone-faced.

Later, in Suradha's chambers, she watched her son pace and bite his thumb. "They will kill us," he said, "they have never forgiven us for what Father did."

Dushala noted that he was still sweating, slick lines of moisture running down his face. "They are my cousins and, I believe, bear me some affection yet. I can't believe they would go so far."

"Mother, you have always been too naive regarding them. We must take action before they reach, we must-" Suradha broke off and sat down abruptly. "I can't think - I - my chest hurts - water, give me water."

The servants at the back of the room ran to attend to him. Dushala watched in concern as he gulped down the water, then slumped back, his right hand clutching his shoulder. 

He died an hour later.

>>>

Dushala watched Suradha's cremation dry eyed. Specks of ash blew onto her white sari and the women around her were sobbing openly, but her eyes stayed dry. She could not afford to weep. Arjun's chariot was mere hours away. If he spared them, there would be time to weep later. 

When the horse reached the palace gates, snorting and curveting, Dushala was prepared. She held Suradha's son in her arms. The child was sleepy and fractious, aware that something was wrong. Her ladies in waiting were arrayed behind her, but the palace guards stood well back, as she had instructed them.

She met Arjun's eyes before the chariot stopped. There were threads of white in his hair and deep lines around his eyes. 

"Cousin, I greet you. Where is my nephew?" 

She said, "The King is dead. I stand in his place, as regent to his son. I beg you, show mercy."

"I grieve with you, cousin. I have not come for war."

No, she thought, only for obedience. Well, you shall have it.

Arjun continued, as though he were reading from a speech: "As a sign of our good intentions, I will anoint your grandson as the next king."

She wanted to say: See what you have done, all of you. You blame Dada, but you are all culpable, every single one of you. Like boys fighting over a toy, trampling everything in your way, you have broken everything for which we cared. I could do nothing and yet I suffer equally. You killed my husband and I roamed a battleground looking for pieces of his body. I burned my son on a funeral pyre today. All my brothers are dead. And you, whom I loved once, I look at you and I wish you were dead as well.

Her grandson stirred in her arms and cried fitfully. She remembered herself.

Dushala said, "Thank you, my lord. You are merciful. We welcome you to our home and urge you to accept our hospitality."

She turned to lead the way through the gates, her back erect, as befitted a Kaurava princess.


End file.
